


the season of eyes meeting over the noise

by evewithanapple



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:53:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28097214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: “And if I were to throw polite fictions to the wind entirely," Sara says, "I would say that we’ve both had a hell of a year, and are, quite naturally, in no mood for celebration."
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	the season of eyes meeting over the noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Titti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titti/gifts).



That the Institute observes the passing of Christmas each year is the example that proves the rule: one of the few times Laszlo Kreizler has conceded to the presence of the holiday. The children under his care are, by and large, Christians by birth, and those whose families still trouble themselves to visit gather around a tree in the foyer each year to exchange gifts. He puts in a token appearance at these celebrations, gladhanding the parents and donors for as long as he can before he escapes to either his office or one of the back rooms where the Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, and assorted other fellow nonbelievers (as he considers himself) pass the time during the party. A few venture out to observe the proceedings, but most keep their distance. Laszlo hardly blames them. If he had his way about it, they would have no tree at all.

It’s Roosevelt and Moore who largely make up for his deficiencies in this regard – Theodore seems in his element whenever parties are involved, happily politicking with the donors and getting on the floor to play with the children alike. Laszlo would blame the Dutch in him, but he tried it once, and Theodore retorted that it was Laszlo’s own German ancestors who brought the Christmas tree to America, so he hardly has room to complain. John, likewise, loves the season in its entirety – he glories in the decorations, the gifts exchanged, the mulled wine (rather too much, in Laszlo’s opinion) and the endless, ear-scraping carols. John and his formidable grandmother have been inviting Laszlo to their Christmas dinners for as long as he’s known them, and while he has on occasion taken them up on the offer, he prefers to pass the day alone.

(At home, Cyrus usually takes the day off to spend with family. Mary and Stevie put up garlands, and though Laszlo puts his foot down about any trees being carried into the parlour, they find their way around it by setting one up in the kitchen. But now Mary is gone, and Stevie insists he’s outgrown the holiday altogether. So his house, at least, is free of any Christmas trappings. He tells himself the only reason he ever appreciated the decorations to begin with was because they were Mary’s, and there’s no reason to bother with them now.)

On Christmas Eve of 1897 – a little under a year after the conclusion of the Beechum case – Laszlo finds himself once again barricaded in a back room of the Institute while the party rages outside. If he were being entirely fair, he might admit that the party isn’t raging by any standard metric – the children are somewhat rowdy, but no more so than they might be on a normal day out on the playground. It has been a quiet year at the Institute, which Laszlo greatly appreciates; they currently have only eighteen children living in residence, of which fifteen are attending the party. Roosevelt is there, of course, happily handing out gifts. John is with him, overseeing the festivities with the air of an indulgent father, Joseph in tow. After Joseph came to live at the Institute, Moore dropped in to check on him so often that Laszlo finally told him, exasperated, that he might as well take the boy home and have done with it. So Joseph is now Joseph Moore, and is being reared in John’s house under the watchful eye of John’s venerable grandmother. It was a good place for the boy, even if stronger souls than Laszlo’s had been known to quail under Mrs. Schuyler’s piercing gaze.

“Good Lord.”

Laszlo glances up from his papers just in time to see Sara Howard coming through the door, carefully stepping over the child who has fallen asleep in the entryway. “I understand if you find it difficult to secure funding, but if things are so dire that the children are reduced to sleeping on the floor, I assure you I could help you procure some.”

“Your consideration is appreciated,” he says stiffly. “But entirely unnecessary. I simply haven’t had the opportunity to carry him off to bed yet.” He knows full well that Sara is poking fun, but he’s not in the mood to cooperate.

“I have been told they’re capable of sleeping anywhere, it’s true.” Sara eyes Piotr – one of the youngest children at the Institute, put into Laszlo’s care at the tender age of six for repeated incidents of arson. One of the milder cases Laszlo has seen, in truth – no more than a small child’s natural curiosity and lack of common sense paired with easily available matches – but the last incident involved a significant amount of property damage, and the presiding judge insisted that he be sent either to the Institute or to Randall’s Island. The other two children in the room with them, who are huddled together at a desk paging through a copy of _Captains Courageous,_ look up long enough to register the new arrival and then go back to reading. Piotr, entirely undisturbed, goes on snoring.

“I admit, I’m surprised to see you here,” Laszlo says, because it’s politer than simply shooing her out of the room. “I would have thought you’d have business elsewhere.”

“On Christmas Eve?” Sara shrugs, sinking into one of the empty chairs. “I’ve been informed that the police have no need of my services tonight, and I’ve no wish to go home and risk having to deal with carolers at the door. John suggested that I attend your party instead, and so here I am.”

“He did, did he.” Somehow, Laszlo is not surprised in the slightest. “I fear he may have mislead you somewhat, if that’s the case. There isn’t much to enjoy here for anyone over the age of thirteen.” For that matter, he’s not convinced that it provides anything meaningful for the younger children either, but he’s willing to concede for the sake of keeping the peace.

Sara looks back at the children. “Would that be why you’re keeping company with this motley assortment instead of those in the hall?”

“We don’t believe in Jesus!” one of the girls at the desk announces, her voice infused with the glee exclusive to children attempting to provoke a reaction from the adults around them. When Sara provides her with nothing more than a bland, “oh, I see,” she gives a defeated sigh and returns to her book.

“I am here to supervise,” Laszlo says. “So far as I know, John and Theodore have the festivities well in hand.”

“They do, at that.” Sarah’s cigarette case flashes silver in her hand as she pulls it out. Laszlo gives her a pointed look, and she returns it to her pocket with only the slightest roll of her eyes. “Though I would have thought you’d put in at least a token show of cheer, for the sake of appearances.”

“I already have.”

“Mmm.” Lacking her cigarette, Sara seems at something of a loss for what to do with her hands; her fingers are drumming against her knees. “I might have guessed you’d gotten that out of the way already.” She leans back in her chair. “You know, an alienist could make quite a meal of this.”

“Of what?” he asks. His voice is only slightly chilly. He’s accustomed himself to Sara’s directness by now.

“Oh, all this.” She gestures around the room. “You closeting yourself away from the festivities in this dingy little room. I might diagnose . . . hmm.” She’s pulled a pen out from somewhere, and is now rolling it between her fingers. Laszlo supposes it at least provides her something to fidget with. “Avoidance, certainly. Some form of self-induced melancholia. Tell me, doctor, what diagnosis would you give one who deliberately withdrew from society?”

Laszlo steeples his fingers as he looks at her. She meets his eyes, as unperturbed as ever. “I would first ensure the diagnosis was not a form of projection on my part.”

She smirks. “You think a doctor can only diagnose that which he himself does not suffer from? I should think it would give him a greater insight into his patient’s condition.”

He snorts a small, undignified laugh. “You would find few alienists who would concede your point.”

“More’s the pity.” She shrugs. “For myself, I would say that I am aware of my own shortcomings or try to be. I consider it a virtue to be able to recognize – for example – that I dislike the Christmas festivities and ignore them whenever possible. I find them tiresome. If I were to be quite blunt – “

“- as you frequently are - ”

“- I would say that I find them discomfiting,” she continues, a widened smirk the only sign that she heard him speak. “The unceasing emphasis on family, the insistence on false cheer, the belief that any who do not enjoy partaking are somehow deficit in natural human feeling. And I would say also that I suspect you feel the same.” She lets her pen drop to the desk in front of her. “And if I were to throw polite fictions to the wind entirely, I would say that we’ve both had a hell of a year, and are, quite naturally, in no mood for celebration. Especially considering the many who are not here to celebrate with us.”

In another life, he thinks, Sara would have been a remarkable surgeon. She seems to greatly enjoy cutting close to the bone. “I would call that insightful,” he says. “I would also say that, given you have already provided a thorough assessment of the situation, I have nothing further to add. Congratulations, Sara; you’ve proven yourself as capable an alienist as you may be without proper training.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Coming from you, that’s high praise.”

He spreads his hands wide. “Take it or leave it.”

“I think I will take it, thank you.” She glances at the clock mounted on the wall behind him. “Shouldn’t this lot be in bed by now? I’ve been told children require a great deal of sleep.”

He glances over his shoulder at the girls, whose heads are now drooping over their book. “Sooner rather than later, I should think.”

Whatever Sara might say to that (he’s quite sure she isn’t about to offer to shepherd the children off to bed with him) is interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by John stepping in. He spots Piotr on the floor at once, and frowns at Laszlo and Sara. “Did it not occur to either of you that the floor is no place for a child to sleep?”

“I did raise the issue,” Sara says, which Laszlo considers an overstatement of the matter. “But he looks comfortable enough to me.”

Still frowning, John scoops the boy up and deposits him on the chaise. He doesn’t stir in the slightest. “And speaking of people in places where they oughtn’t be, are you two going to emerge at some point? The party’s beginning to break up, and I imagine some of the parents might wish to speak to you, Laszlo, before they leave.”

Laszlo casts a fruitless glance at Sara, hoping that she might come to his rescue. She does no such thing. “Of course, you have your duties to attend to. I suppose I can ensure that these three come to no mischief while you’re otherwise occupied.” She smiles at him yet again, not bothering to hide her amusement.

“ _I_ will keep watch over these three,” John says firmly. “You two go and see the guests off. I’m sure it won’t take long.”

Laszlo and Sara exchange a look. “I rather feel we’ve been outflanked,” Sara says.

“That we have.” Laszlo stands, extending a hand to her. He might have expected as much, really; John is not a schemer by nature, but a decade’s worth of friendship with Laszlo has given him at least a few tricks to deploy. “But never let it be said I cannot recognize defeat. If you will, Miss Howard?”

Sara, it seems, is also willing to recognize when she’s been had. She takes his offered hand. “Come, then,” she says, “let’s run the gauntlet.”

“Incorrigible, the both of you,” John says as he takes his seat on the chaise next to Piotr. “Do at least try not to chase off any donors. You do need those.”

“I’ve managed so far, have I not?” Laszlo shakes his head. “Honestly, John, you have a distressing lack of faith in my abilities.”

“I wouldn’t call it a lack of faith.” John stretches his legs out in front of him and places his hands behind his head. “It’s the two of you together I worry about. It’s like mixing saltpeter and charcoal. I’m constantly in fear of the resulting explosion.”

“Nonsense, John.” Sara brushes past him, leading Laszlo along. “In this, we are in perfect sympathy.”

The sound of John’s laughter follows them out into the hall, but the look they share is a silent laugh all its own. 


End file.
